Reem Kassis

This past July, I bought eggplants at the farmers’ market, intending to make my grandmother’s signature maqlubeh: the cinnamon-and-allspice-scented rice dish layered with fried eggplants and chicken, cooked in a pot, then flipped onto a serving platter, forming a golden dome. Before I had the chance to peel the eggplants, stripe by stripe, and drop them into hot oil, a WhatsApp message came in from my mother—a single, waving-hand emoji at an unusual hour. I knew immediately what it meant.

The first dinner I ever hosted in the United States was the spontaneous act of a homesick college freshman. I had nowhere to go during spring break, so I cooked maqlubeh (spiced rice, eggplant, and chicken) and, true to my culture, made enough to feed any student left behind in the dorm.

My first daughter was born in a London hospital, but her surroundings soon felt very Palestinian. By 6 a.m. the morning after she arrived, my mother had brought ijjeh (a herb frittata often made for new mothers) stuffed inside a pita slathered with labneh (a strained yogurt) to my bedside. In the afternoon, she returned with hilbeh (a fenugreek-semolina cake), purported to improve milk supply.